Six Times
by detectivejigsaw
Summary: After the Bill Incident, Ford is having nightmares (for obvious reasons). One night he gets Stanley to talk about a few of the things he said and did that night. Rated T for dark themes; part 2 of the Flipside AU.


**Warning: there are references to depression, suicide, self-harm, and seventies-era opinions on therapy in here. Also implications that Filbrick Pines is a jerk.**

* * *

_Click._

_Click._

_Click._

_Click._

_Click._

_BOOM_

Ford's eyes flew open, and he was quickly reminded that the stereotype of "waking up in a cold sweat" after a nightmare was, in some circumstances, remarkably true.

It was the sixth time in two weeks that this nightmare had manifested in full, as opposed to the numerous fragments of it that kept appearing in his dreams.

It took two minutes for his heart to calm itself down; even then, he could still feel it racing a little as he finally grabbed his glasses, got out of bed and padded down to his brother's room.

Stan was still very deeply asleep, despite having lost most of his blankets. His arms and legs were completely stretched out, and faint traces of drool hung around his mouth. Ford reached out and shook one of the bedposts, having learned the hard way that shaking his brother could result in injury.

Within seconds Stan's eyes flew open, and he sat bolt upright-a knee-jerk response learned from far too much time spent behind bars.

"Wha-Sixer? What is it?"

"How many times?"

Stan gave him a look of groggy confusion.

"Um…"

"You said 'a few.' How many is 'a few'?" Ford's hands had clenched into trembling fists.

"Uh, Ford, I think you're sleepwalking or something-you're not makin' any sense-"

"Scars, Stanley!" Had he been less emotional, Ford might have realized that his question had been somewhat cryptic. But at the moment, he was _very_ emotional, and so the words came out in an irritable snarl. "You said that a few of your scars were made by you! How. Many?!"

Slowly Stan shifted until he was sitting on the edge of the bed, eyebrows scrunching together as the question sank in.

"You woke me up at-" he squinted at the clock- "two in the morning ta ask me that?"

Ford folded his arms and glowered down at him; his fingers tapped against his arm in his agitation.

"...Did you have a nightmare or something?"

A tiny bit of his wrath dissipated at the sympathy in Stan's voice, and self-consciousness crept into its place, reminding him that he was no longer a small child who should need to wake people up to comfort him after nightmares. On the other hand, he'd read that bottling up emotions was just as bad for you as not taking care of physical injuries, and he probably wasn't going to get any more sleep tonight without some reassurance regarding his brother's emotional state. So he muttered, staring down at the carpet, "...Yeah."

Stan sighed, and patted part of the bed next to him in silent invitation.

Ford sank down onto it, letting his hands drop into the space between his knees. "It was about Bill. About how you made him leave us alone. I've dreamed about it a few times since it happened and..." He shivered. "Mostly...what I remember is the sound." He mimed putting a gun to his head and pulling the trigger. "The clicking. But sometimes...it literally ends with a bang instead."

Stan shivered. "Geez."

"Yeah."

For a moment they sat still, with their shoulders pressed together. Then Ford asked again, "How many times did you...hurt yourself?"

Stan gave him an annoyed look. "Why's this so important all of a sudden?"

"Because I-" Ford swallowed. "I want to be able to...potentially prevent it. If needed. I don't want it to happen again."

Stan's annoyance dissipated as quickly as it had come. "It won't." He leaned against Ford a little more. "I'm fine now."

Ford was not appeased, but he stayed quiet, deciding to stop pushing and see if his twin would open up on his own.

* * *

At last Stan said, probably wanting to spare his brother the unhappy details but realizing it was the only way to give him peace of mind, "At first...I was too mad to feel anything else. Mad at you, mad at myself, mad at Pa-and I wanted to show you all that I could make that fortune, all by myself, and prove that I wasn't as worthless as you thought. Stubborn, y'know. Even after I got banned from Jersey, I still thought I could do it somehow."

He let out a sardonic laugh. For the moment Ford resisted the urge to immediately jump in and tell him that he wasn't worthless and he'd never felt that way about him.

"And then I got chased out of my third state...and that's when I got really low." Stan looked down, but he could still make out the sadness in his eyes. "I began to see that I was probably never gonna make millions the way I was going...and I couldn't do anything else because I didn't have any other skills." He swallowed. "Maybe this'd be easier if ya just made me wear the truth teeth."

"Yes, but I don't want to do that to you again."

Stan grimaced. "Instead ya wanna make me choose ta drag all of this out on my own. Thanks a lot."

There was no real heat in it, so Ford didn't take offense.

After a minute Stan went on, "First time...I don't remember it that well. I think I was drunk, and depressed. And I just…" He looked down at his arm. "Yeah."

Ford reached out, brushed his fingers over the scars he could see there. They looked like they'd been made with a piece of broken glass, he thought, and some of them trailed dangerously close to the inside of his brother's wrist. He swallowed hard.

"Someone who was passing by stopped me before it got too bad, and seeing what I'd done ta myself sobered me up pretty quick. I think he tried ta take me to a hospital, but I just yelled 'Non-specific excuse!' and stumbled away into the night until I found my car." Stan shivered. "I didn't know much, but I knew I didn't wanna end up in there if I could avoid it."

Ford shivered too; from what he knew about hospitals and how they treated suicidal cases, that was probably for the best.

"I began feeling like that...on and off. Felt like...the world would be better off without me in it. But there's only about six more times I can remember where it got bad enough that I actually tried to...you know. Mostly I just lost myself in doin' my thing. Suckering people outta their money and stuff, and drowning my sorrows when it got ta be too much. Trying not to think about...how I was just provin' Pa right." He wrapped his arms around himself, clearly uncomfortable with how much he'd revealed.

Ford wanted to take the hint and put an end to the discussion, but he had one more question. "Were there actually bullets in the gun?"

A full tremor went through Stan's body.

At last he whispered, so softly that Ford could barely hear it, "...Would it make you feel better if I said no?"

"Stanley!" Ford hadn't meant to raise his voice; it happened all on its own.

"What was I supposed to do?! Let him use you for whatever it was he was planning? I wasn't gonna do that as long as there was another option!"

"Yes, but-"

"It's not like I _wanted_ to die. I was betting that he was gonna give up when he saw that he'd lose his pawn if he didn't." Stan let out a shaky breath. "But if the choice was me or you...you'd win every time."

* * *

Ford's throat was so tight he couldn't speak. After a second, he just wrapped both arms around Stan's middle, burrowing into his shoulder. He felt Stan's arms around his shoulders, one of them ruffling his hair.

"It's okay," his brother whispered. "I'm right here, I ain't goin' nowhere." The 'now that I've got a reason to stay' hung unspoken between them.

"...If you start feeling like hurting yourself again, come and tell me, please."

Stan stiffened. "I ain't gonna visit any shrinks, Poindexter."

"I'm not suggesting that unless it turns out you really need it. Just..."

_If nothing else, I want to be able to sleep at night knowing you're not going to suddenly decide to kill yourself._

After a long pause, he felt Stan nod.

"Kay."

Eventually Ford felt secure enough to let go of his brother. He was not, however, secure enough to go back to his room...but wasn't sure how to ask without making it weird.

Stan, however, seemed to read his emotions, just like old times.

"Sleepover?" he asked, raising his eyebrows at him.

Ford blushed. "Don't make it weird, Stanley."

Stan grinned, and lay back down, scooting over until there was room for Ford to stretch out next to him and pull the covers up around both of them. It was a little snug, but right now that wasn't necessarily a bad thing.

"Night, Sixer."

"Night, Stanley."

* * *

**Is the ending a little cliche?**

**Maybe.**

**Do I regret it?**

**Not even a little.**


End file.
